The air smelled of lilies and stale champagne, a cloying sweetness that made my stomach twist. My sister glowed in white lace as her new husband spun her across the dance floor. His laugh echoed through the room.
The same laugh that once belonged to me.
This was her wedding day — a celebration for everyone except me.
I stood near a pillar with a glass of water, forcing myself to look present, to breathe through the weight pressing on my chest. Five years. We had five years together. Shared dreams, whispered plans, the quiet comfort of a future unfolding. He proposed on a rainy Tuesday in our tiny apartment with a ring he picked himself. I said yes, crying because I believed my life had finally settled into place.
Six months later, it ended.
A coffee shop. Neutral voices. “It’s not you, it’s me.” He said he needed to find himself. Empty words that left me hollow. I begged for clarity, for honesty, for something. He gave me nothing. He walked away with my future, leaving me alone in the wreckage.
Less than a year later, the messages started.
From my sister.
“He’s so sweet, sis.”
“He really understands me.”
“We just clicked.”
Then came the announcement. They were together. Then engaged.
The shock felt physical, like all the air had been punched from my lungs. My sister. My family framed it as “unfortunate timing” and “true love.” As if my five years, my engagement, my heartbreak were just an inconvenient preface to their happy ending.
I spent the last year mastering emotional restraint for the sake of family peace. But tonight, the cracks showed. Every glance between them reopened wounds. Every touch felt like salt. I watched my mother cry happy tears during the speeches, praising how “perfect” they were, how “meant to be.”
Meant to be.
I nearly choked.
I slipped away from the music and laughter into a quiet hallway leading to the service entrance. The cool night air hit my face, grounding me. My phone buzzed — a friend asking if I was okay.
No. I was a ghost at my own funeral.
“There you are!” my sister’s voice rang out, bright and slightly slurred. She swayed toward me, veil pushed back, eyes shining with champagne and triumph. “Why are you hiding?”
“Just needed air,” I muttered, hoping she’d let it go.
She didn’t.
She stepped closer, her perfume overwhelming. “I’ve felt so guilty,” she said softly. “About everything. But I wanted to clear the air.”
My stomach tightened. I braced myself.
“He was unhappy,” she continued. “With you. Before the breakup.”
The words froze my blood. “What?”
“He confided in me,” she said, her tone oddly self-assured. “He didn’t know how to leave without hurting you. I helped him. I told him to do what was right.”
The room tilted. “You told him to leave me?” My voice cracked. “Your own sister?”
She flinched, then steadied herself, one hand drifting unconsciously to her stomach. “He wanted a family,” she said. “And you always said you weren’t sure you could give him that.”
Cold washed over me.
My medical fears. The doctors. The tearful conversations I’d only ever shared with her.
“And I could,” she whispered. “I’m almost five months pregnant.”
Everything stopped.
Five months.
My mind did the math before I could stop it.
He left me seven months ago.
They announced their relationship six months ago.
She was five months pregnant.
Which meant one thing.
She was pregnant while he was still engaged to me.
My sister. My confidante. She hadn’t just taken him — she’d orchestrated everything. Slept with him behind my back. Carried his child. Used my deepest fear as justification.
The music, the laughter, the celebration collapsed into noise. She stood before me glowing in white, victorious, holding the secret that destroyed my life — offering it like a twisted confession on her wedding night.
The champagne suddenly turned bitter.
And this time, there was nothing sweet about the sickness rising in my throat.
